


Small Mercies

by jenna221b, mollydobby (frangipane)



Series: Cracks in the Ice [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, The Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipane/pseuds/mollydobby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This should not be happening. Sherlock wants to scream, to bargain, to plead with someone, anyone, John come back.</p><p>But, Sherlock is out of words."</p><p>A Three Garridebs collaborative fic, started by one tumblr post...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There’s something so raw and powerful, such an intimate moment in the way John says _“Sherlock. We’re losing you. **Sherlock**.”_ And John is still so calm throughout it all, ever the soldier, supressing his fear, and worry, and doubt, and anger. _Because perhaps_ , John thinks, _he can hear me_. John sees something in those heavy, glazed eyes, drifting between open and closed as the ambulance hurries on. John still sees a flicker of light, and he holds onto that, ignores the stomach-churning memories of dimmed, blank, staring eyes and blood on the pavement. He asked Sherlock for a miracle, once. Sherlock said he heard him. John believes in Sherlock Holmes.

But, when the roles are reversed, Sherlock watches in silent horror as the light in John’s eyes dies in front of him. He can feel himself shaking. He wants to throw up, but he won’t do John the disservice of turning away. This should not be happening. Sherlock wants to scream, to bargain, to plead with someone, anyone, _John come **back**._

But, Sherlock is out of words.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock tightens his grip on his scarf, now tarry with matted blood, black swallowing navy as he keeps pressure on John’s wound. 

There are many things he doesn’t know, but he knows what John is thinking: “Please God, let me live.” 

John had told him as much once. Sherlock hopes fervently that he gets to ask John the same question again. But for that to happen, he needs to THINK.


	3. Chapter 3

And he’s trying, God he is, but the rooms bleed into one another, as Redbeard roams the halls and gets lost, and Mary flees, veil tearing behind her, and Mycroft towers over him in silent judgement, and Jim Moriarty’s chains break free and-

John’s eyes open, just a fraction, and there is hope, however small, however brief. “Stop thinking,” he mouths, and he smiles, the damned stupid admirable bravery of the soldier (Liberty in death), and just before his eyes close again, and his face goes horribly lax, John whispers, “’s'always…been you, Sher…”


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of John’s voice stills the whirling chaos in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock can feel John begin to shiver. 

“Not much else you can do for him now …” Sherlock hears Molly’s voice in his head. Her voice grows fainter, receding with a ghostly echo as she turns and disappears into the gloom of a darkened corridor. “Best to keep him comfortable and wait.” 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. _John is beyond his ministrations at this point._ He takes one hand off his scarf, and wrenches his coat off his shoulder, taking care to keep pressing with the other hand. 

He shivers, the air of the warehouse cold against his sweat-damp jacket. _Good. That means the coat is warmer._ He yanks the other coat sleeve as far down as he can around the hand still on John, and throws the coat over him. 

He leans over John, tucking the edges of the coat around him, careful not to let his weight shift. He wants to feel John’s breath across his cheek, but he can’t tell for certain. All he could feel was his own blood pumping through his veins, his own breathing ragged and monstrously loud to his ears. 

“John. John, stay with me. Don’t go.” 

He slips his hand back under the coat, and resumes pressing down on the sodden scarf with both hands.

Teetering between hope and dread, he wills for help to arrive soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Help does come, in the end. Sherlock doesn’t know how long it takes- he cannot keep track of time, can only measure how many times John shivers. Sherlock whispers “Ssh,” which is stupid- John can’t hear him now, he knows this. But, it somehow seems important to keep on reminding John that he is not alone, no matter how illogical it-

He answers the paramedics’ questions fully and dutifully. He temporarily pretends John is just an unknown victim so he can relay all information without stammering.

In the hospital, Sherlock does not eat or drink anything apart from awful, stewed cups of tea in Styrofoam cups. Lestrade comes, but does not say anything, just puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and guides him to sit down for a while (good). Molly also appears fleetingly with a neatly folded change of clothes from Mrs Hudson (also good). But then, Molly and Lestrade leave together, and Sherlock feels a sick, burning envy and-

And then, Mycroft turns up. No suit- creased shirt with the sleeves rolled up. (Would be a bit not good to crack a joke about Christmas now.) Sherlock turns away from him, and Mycroft sighs: “Sherlock… Sherlock, you need to get some sleep.”

He had expected Mycroft to day something, but nothing so monumentally stupid as that. “Would you sleep?” Sherlock hisses. He immediately regrets it- the _look_ on Mycroft’s face. He hardly remembers those dark nights, but he is sure Mycroft does.

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes. “No. No, I didn’t. …I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I- I-”

In spite of everything, he yawns. Unacceptable. Mycroft smiles- weary but fond. He hesitates, then gently says, “Why don’t-”

But then… then the news comes that John has pulled through, and everything passes in a blur: Mycroft speaks quietly to the doctors, and must pull some strings, because suddenly Sherlock is being spirited away to see John, leaving Mycroft looking uncommonly lost in the corridor. 

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice is far too quiet. Sherlock marvels at the sight of him: small and white yet strong, his back propped up straight against the pillows with deliberate nonchalance. Sherlock stands at the foot of the bed, hands tightly clasped behind his back.

“I watched you die,” Sherlock admits. His voice is horrifically unsteady.

John grimaces. “Yeah. Yeah, I heard. But, anyway. I’m not really unfamiliar with-”

And, Sherlock flinches, he can’t stop himself, and John trying to lean forward, too weak to succeed, and he’s saying, “No. No, Christ, Sherlock, not like- I didn’t mean- Please.” He reaches his hand out towards Sherlock. They don’t do this. They never do this.

“Please,” John repeats.

Sherlock steps forward, only just stops himself from swaying. He is so tired. He gingerly holds John’s hand, and John’s squeezes hard.

“We’ve got to stop doing this,” John says. Sherlock’s chest tightens. This is, then. Game over. “I mean it, Sherlock,” John continues, and his voice is suddenly brittle with barely suppressed tears, and Sherlock has never heard him sound like this before, not John, never John-

“I thought I would never get to say- to-” John breaks off, and swallows. “I’ve been here before.”

“I’m sorry, John, I’m so-”

“I meant in Aghanistan.”

Sherlock’s mouth shuts, and John briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling, as they fill with unshed tears. “There-I- when I was… back then, I didn’t have anyone to wake up to. Harry wasn’t- wasn’t well and- and I thought-” John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s once more. “But then, you and you- that changed everything.”

John’s voice breaks. Sherlock takes another step forward. “What do you need?” Sherlock asks.

And, John finally starts to cry. “I-I want to come home. Please, Sh-Sherlock.” His sobs are loud, and unrestrained, and Sherlock flounders.

“Yes, yes, John- I- wherever you want-”

John lets out a teary laugh. “No, you i-idiot. Home is 221B Baker Street.”

“I-I don’t-”

“Christ, come _here_.”

And Sherlock does. He perches on the bed, and John tugs him closer, curling a hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock is dizzy with tiredness, now, concentrating all his effort on keeping his eyes open.

“Home is wherever you are,” John says. “Okay? Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes close. “What… what for?”

John’s hand moves so his thumb is stroking Sherlock’s cheek, so very careful. “I’m- I’m sorry it took all this for me to… to tell you I’m in love with you.”

Oh. And this is the Most Important Thing Sherlock has ever heard, but his eyelids stay fast shut, so heavy, and all he can do is sigh, “Yes… yes… love- s’always you…”

The wave of everything hits him, then, and Sherlock feels himself pitching forward. John catches him in a way, shifts so Sherlock has more space on the bed.

“Hey, when was the last time you slept?” John asks, soft.

“…Hmm?”

“Never mind. Sleep. We’ll talk more later. Would you- would you promise me?”

“Mmm, yes…”

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Sherlock wakes with a start. He is cold, shivering. Why is it so-

“John. John!”

Sherlock picks himself off the warehouse floor, his body numb, and collides with Lestrade.

“Easy, Sherlock, you’re in-”

“I’m _not_ in shock,” Sherlock snarls. “Where. _Is_ -”

But, the answer comes before Sherlock can finish the sentence. Just behind Lestrade, he can see John being placed on a stretcher, the bloodied Belstaff left in a heap on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock shakes off Lestrade’s hand, and lurches towards the expanding haze of blue and white lights whirling outside. _John, I’m coming for you. Hold on._  He stumbles and loses his balance, the world dissolving into white as he falls, sprawling hard onto the concrete. He tries to get up – but the rush of adrenaline from the impact is too much – he feels weightless, too untethered to press down and push himself off the floor …

An arm braces against his back – it must be Lestrade. His other arm is being thrown across Lestrade’s shoulder. Then he is towed, thankfully, gratefully, towards the ambulance. Lestrade pushing him up towards a pair of waiting hands inside – “Yes, take him too. Those two ride together.”

He lets the paramedics wrap him in a blanket. Check his vitals. As they strap him into one of the side seats, he keeps his eyes fixed on John. Much of John’s face is obscured by the stabilizing straps and the oxygen mask, and his body is covered by a blanket, secured by more straps. But he can still reach out and hold John’s hand.

He grimaces at how cold and limp John’s fingers feels. _How much blood did John lose? A fifth or more of one’s total blood volume would cause hypovolemic shock. Did John lose more or less than 2 liters of blood? The average diameter of  a single cashmere fiber is less than 19 microns in diameter, so the absorbency of a cashmere scarf measuring –_

_“Must you saw away at that violin so, Sherlock?”_

_“Shut up, Mycroft. It helps me think.”_

_Summertime in the garden shed, back at the cottage, a long time ago.  Mycroft pushes his tortoiseshell glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and sighs. He rolls up his shirtsleeves - the better to hide the ink stains while he practices writing with a fountain pen - and goes back to scribbling in his notebook._

_“Can you at least limit it to special occasions? To actual important thoughts?”_

_Actual important thoughts. It doesn’t matter about how badly John has been hurt, what matters is holding on to John and not letting go. FOCUS._

Sherlock traces his fingers over John’s hand, feeling the observations that he usually only sees. The faint scratch of dry cuticles from all the hand washing between patients at his office. The callus on the third finger from John’s recent enthusiasm for mastering billiards. The slight indent on the tips of the index and third fingers from the way John pecks away at the keyboard, lips pursed, his face screwed up in concentration – 

The ambulance stops. The doors open. Sherlock lets go of John’s hand and watches on mutely as John is carried off into surgery.

_John, who makes mysteries worth solving and the mundane interesting – just the two of them together …_

He doesn’t know how yet, but he needs find a way to tell John and make him understand. As soon as John makes it out of medical limbo.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock waits, and waits, and waits, and it is hateful. He loses track of the amount of times he paces up and down the corridor- the bright lights, and white walls too much-

And then, there is the clack of that monstrous umbrella, and it sets Sherlock’s teeth on edge. He closes his eyes, and leans against the wall, waiting for Mycroft to come to him. He is half running, his breathing slightly irregular. _Putting on weight again?_

Sherlock opens his eyes as Mycroft stops beside him. No rolled up shirtsleeves: normal suit, normal tie, normal, normal, normal-

“Sherlock,” is all Mycroft says.

Sherlock exhales. Calm; control; control-

“How is he?” Mycroft adds, and something inside Sherlock snaps.

“Oh, well you’ll know more than me, won’t you?” he spits, and refuses to feel guilty at Mycroft drawing back reflexively. “Why don’t you get one of your lackeys to look it up?”

Mycroft’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Unlike what you would have Doctor Watson believe, brother mine, I am not omnis-”

“Do you really think anyone’s believing you?” Sherlock’s voice is steadily rising, but he can’t stop it. “Would you stop pretending and tell me what-”

But then, Mycroft does the unforgiveable. He clears his throat, looks Sherlock straight in the eye, and asks “Who shot him?”

Sherlock’s hand flies out to punch the wall. “You _know_ who it was, Mycroft!” Pain spikes from his knuckles. “Stop pretending! I’m done with this, this bloody stupid game that you’re-”

“I never intended-”

“It doesn’t matter what you _intended_. All that matters is what happened, what’s-” The words choke Sherlock briefly, and he has to pause and take a breath. He wants to shake Mycroft, hurt him, make him _understand_.

“He could _die_ , Mycroft,” he whispers, the reality of it overwhelming.

Mycroft steps forward, wary. “Sherlock, don’t tort-”

“No! You’re not _listening_ to me, why do you never just _listen_.”

Another step forward. Mycroft swallows. “I’m sorry. I am.”

But, that’s not enough. Sherlock still feels the crushing weight of everything on top of him, and he suddenly screams, “I can’t lose him, Mycroft,” and it echoes down the corridor.

“I- I can’t-” Sherlock says, and his voice is high pitched and quiet and mortifying. He presses his fingers to his eyes, but it’s too late: he can feel them already hot with tears, and he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to cry in front of Mycroft, not now, but he’s already-

“I-I’ve not told him- I- I have to-” Sherlock looks steadily down at the floor. “I l-love him.”

One more step forward. “Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, hushed. Sherlock looks up, and he most look an awful sight, but then so does Mycroft, all white face, and harsh frown lines.

Mycroft hesitates, then carefully takes hold of Sherlock’s wrist. And suddenly, he looks impossibly young, like when they used to look in rock-pools and Sherlock had fallen, too quick for Mycroft to catch him.

“Your hand,” Mycroft says. He sounds desperately sad. Sherlock looks down. His knuckles are bleeding.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock tries to pull his hand away from Mycroft, but Mycroft’s hold on his wrist tightens. Mycroft draws out the pocket square from his suit, and binds it around Sherlock’s knuckles. Mycroft’s fingers circling Sherlock’s wrist starts kneading their way gently down Sherlock’s hand, stopping when they wrap around Sherlock’s shaking fingertips in a firm squeeze.  Something about the sense memory of this calms Sherlock – he stops and catches his breath, as the band of dove grey silk mottles with crimson.

“Feeling better now, Sherlock?” The same concerned tone, the same slightly owlish blink, unchanged over the years.

Sherlock lets out a long breath, and manages a small nod. Mycroft tilts his head in acknowledgement, and gestures at the doors on the other end of the corridor.

“Shall we go find someone to speak to about John?” 

Together, they walk down the hallway.


	9. Chapter 9

It is Mycroft who does the talking, and Sherlock is grateful for it. He is near dead on his feet, his mind struggling to make sense of the doctor’s jargon. He picks up on the fact that they are fighting to save John, and it will be a close fight, but they’re doing their best, but is it enough- Sherlock doesn’t realise he is twisting Mycroft’s bloodstained handkerchief tightly around his fingers, until Mycroft silently stills him, just a light touch, covering his hand briefly with his own.

There is yet more waiting. Mycroft insists that Sherlock drinks something, anything, and Sherlock is too tired to protest. Mycroft buys a couple of bottles of water from the vending machines, and, despite everything, Sherlock cracks a smile at the sight.

Mycroft returns with the water, and places them down next to Sherlock. He is fiddling with putting his wallet back into his coat pocket but, as he’s doing so, a packet of cigarettes falls out. Mycroft colours.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I thought you only did on ‘special occasions’?”

Mycroft just sighs, and shrugs slightly. He pauses- Sherlock wishes he knew why- then kicks the packet towards Sherlock. They have one last cigarette together.

Sherlock can feel sleep relentlessly tugging at his eyes, but he fights it. _Not yet, not yet, have to make sure John…_ He pinches himself, and _ouch,_ yes, that’s…

And suddenly, Mycroft is nudging him. “Sherlock? Sherlock did you hear-”

“’M awake,” Sherlock replies automatically, and Mycroft actually laughs for a split second.

“No. I’ve just spoken to the doctor. John’s made it. He’s- you can see him now. Wait for him to come round.”

Sherlock rouses himself, and follows Mycroft back down the corridor. He stops dead in his tracks in front of the door. There is a tense pause, but Mycroft thankfully breaks it by opening the door. He keeps his distance, though, not crossing the threshold.

“Sherlock, _you_ have to go in.”

Yes. There are some things that can’t…

Sherlock steps inside and sucks in a shaky breath at the sight in front of him. _John._

And, Sherlock knows for certain that, this time, this is real- John is deathly white, yes, but there is also a ghastly bruise on the side of his face, from where he fell. Sherlock can feel himself start to shake again, unsure if it’s from the cold or something else, and he staggers forward to clutch John’s hand, knees unsteady.

“Here.” Mycroft’s voice is calm and steady.

Sherlock turns around and sees that Mycroft has brought a chair, carried it over directly behind him. Sherlock collapses into it, still holding John’s hand, and draws himself closer still so he is touching the middle of the bed.

Relief courses through him, just at the sight of John alive. _Alive!_

“Christ,” Sherlock mumbles. He shifts so he is sitting upright, trying to stop his head from nodding.

“Sherlock, just let yourself sleep. Please.”

“No. Have to… John is…”

“Really. You can hardly keep your eyes open.”

And that is true, Sherlock can hardly argue Mycroft on that point. He can’t even summon enough energy to look over at the door when there is a faint knock. Mycroft answers it, and from the sound of high heels crossing the linoleum floor, Sherlock knows it is Anthea. She and Mycroft exchange a few murmured words that Sherlock can’t make head nor tail of, and then she leaves.

The sounds of Mycroft’s footsteps making his way towards him- deliberate, slow. “Are you asleep yet?”

Only then does Sherlock realise his eyes are closed. He opens them to see Mycroft holding his coat, clean, freshly laundered.

“How did you…”

Mycroft smiles. “Needs must.”

Sherlock’s eyes drift shut again. It’s too much effort to keep them open, now, and his head is slowly slumping forward with every passing second. Mycroft drapes the coat over him, Sherlock can feel him fussing to make sure that he is properly covered. For the first time in ages, Sherlock feels safe and warm.

He forces himself to wake up, just a little. This is _important_. It somehow feels like the end of something, something he can’t quite place yet. Eyes still shut, Sherlock takes hold of Mycroft’s wrist. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Never- never said thank you.”

“No.” Mycroft gently unfurls Sherlock’s fingers from his wrist, then smooths down the coat one last time. “You can thank John.”

Sherlock thinks he tries to reply, but he is too far gone now, steadfastly falling into sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

John opens his eyes. The room swims slowly into focus as he tries to steady his breathing. Every gulp of air takes work, but it’s churlish to question miracles, especially when he’s been granted more than his fair share of them over the years.  

Over the usual thrum of hospital equipment, he hears a faint snuffling noise, coming from somewhere just out of sight. He shifts to investigate further, but stops as his left hand closes over not bedsheet but a handful of warm skin and curls.  

“John? John! You’re awake.”

Sherlock, still rumpled from sleep, raises himself hastily off the edge of the bed.  John smiles, until a dull throb on the side of his face turns it into a wince.

“Ow. That explains why I can’t quite see out of my left eye. How do I look?”

“Awful.” Sherlock laughs. “You won’t be shaving for a while.”

“I don’t see why I’d have to …” John fiddles with the controls of the bed until he is sitting up. “Not unless if you’d want me to, of course.” He looks at Sherlock, raising his eyebrows in lieu of a smile.

Sherlock reaches out to take John’s hand. He sighs contentedly as John’s fingers curl around his. “John, there’s something …  I should say. I’ve meant to say it, but I don’t know how –“

John gazes steadily at Sherlock. “You already did. You asked me not to go. I heard you.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think you could hear me. You … you were getting so cold. I – I tried to keep you warm with my coat. It was the only thing left that I could think to do … “ He stops, his voice dropping to a whisper. “John, do you – do you remember what you told me?”

John nods. “It’s always been you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks and swallows. “Just the two of us then?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Sherlock leans over, and presses a kiss against John’s cheek.

John sniffs. “You’ve been smoking.”

Sherlock tries to look guilty, but fails. He shrugs. “So did Mycroft. It’s one of the few things we do together, I suppose.”

“Mycroft was here?”

“Didn’t take a call the entire time.  The affairs of several major nations, brought to a complete standstill on a Wednesday afternoon. You should be honoured, John.”

“He did it for his little brother, you git.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately.

When Sherlock finally speaks, it seems almost more to himself than to John. “We’ll have to thank him properly when we’re home then, won’t we? … John? John?”

John can feel himself drifting back into sleep, but he manages to murmur, “Yes, soon … it’ll be nice to be back in Baker Street again.”

Sherlock sits, weary but relieved, lost in his thoughts for the future, watching over John as he sleeps.

* * *

 

When they're both awake again, they notice an olive green shopping bag left on the bedside table.

Sherlock frowns. “Mrs. Hudson came by, and neither of us noticed?” 

“You’re slipping, Sherlock.” John chuckles. “Let’s hope Lestrade didn’t also come by and video the both of us. What did she bring us? Biscuits?” 

“Thermos of tea, and … French Fancies.”

“Oooh, the very best from the corner shop.”

“Well, it is a special occasion.” 

“Mmmm.” John takes a sip of milky tea from the Thermos cap. 

“Made the way you like it, Sherlock. We should give her a call - it’s a bit not nice to spring surprise returns on her, _Sherlock_. I can’t believe you’re still her favourite.” 

Sherlock grins and passes the box of cakes over to John. 


	11. Chapter 11

It’s raining.

Mycroft doesn’t bother putting up his umbrella. It’s only a short walk to his car, after all. Besides, he is still too focussed on smoking another cigarette, concentrating on keeping his hand steady. Anthea frowns as she opens the car door for him.

“I thought you had quit,” she says, one eyebrow arched.

Mycroft sniffs, throws the cigarette down and stubs it out with his shoe. “It was a new year’s resolution,” he replies. “They are never kept.”

Anthea doesn’t smile- unusual. They are both still a little shaken up, he has to admit. And, that certainly won’t do, not if-

Mycroft and Anthea take their customary places in the back of the car, and Mycroft raps his umbrella handle on the glass divider. The driver nods, and they’re off, soon stuck in typical London traffic.

The rain is now thundering down, but Mycroft still feels like it’s too quiet. He shifts in his seat, looking out of the window. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course.

“My- Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft blinks. “My apologies. I was- elsewhere.”

Anthea is looking down at her phone, but Mycroft knows it’s a pretence. “How is- how is your brother?”

Mycroft sighs. “You saw him.”

“I- yes, but-”

“He’ll be alright. He-”

But, Mycroft is cut short- he’s sure he just saw something, out of the corner of his eyes, some flicker of movement… but, before he can decipher it, the traffic lights have changed to green.

Mycroft moves forward, and taps on the glass divider again. “Stop the car.”

Anthea finally looks up from her phone. The driver indicates, and they pull up to the kerb. Before she can say anything, Mycroft says, “Now, there will be another car waiting that can take you to the office.”

“Pardon?”

“No questions. Please.”

She is far from happy, but the stress of everything that’s happened for once works in Mycroft’s favour- she just unclicks her seatbelt and leaves in stubborn silence.

There is a pause, and then the driver clears his throat. “What are we waiting for, sir?”

“A visitor.”

He is kept waiting for a good ten minutes.

“Mr Holmes.”

A silhouette appears at the car window.

“Good afternoon, Watson.”

She bristles at that, but does not reply. She slides in and shuts the door, taking Anthea’s place. Mycroft opens his mouth, but she beats him to it: “Drive on.”

(Not so) blessed silence. And then:

“You _have_ had an eventful time.”

She snorts. “I could say the same to you.” She draws in a deep breath and wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. Smoking.”

“Ah. Well, you know what they say about old habits.”

She has the audacity to laugh. “Gosh, look at you. Is it fun playing at Mr Ice Man?”

Mycroft’s hands clench around his umbrella. “I wonder if you think this is all a game to me? Do you _really_  think me so naïve?” She just smirks at him, and so he carries on: “You tried to murder my brother. Forgive me but those sorts of people tend to be- taken care of.”

She laughs again, bold as brass. “And yet, here I am. This time was much more fun, though. He made the funniest noises.”

At Mycroft’s frown, she answers, “Oh, not _John._ I meant…” And then, her voice turns into a strange, mock tearful imitation: “J-John, John, stay with me. Don’t go.”

Mycroft’s blood _boils_.

He abandons subtlety. “I will end you. That is a promise.”

Mary stretches and leans back in her seat. “And, here’s mine, Mycroft Holmes: you know, I wanted to end the world. But, I’ll settle for ending yours."

**Author's Note:**

> This is the initial post from my tumblr that started a Three Garridebs ficlet with me (jenna221b) and co-author, mollydobby! Posting it up on here for easier access. Enjoy and thanks for reading! <3 ~Jenna x
> 
> Yes ... the ficlet started off very small - and then it sort of escalated. I hope you enjoy our potato. ~ mollydobby


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